Free Lover in the Rough by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

though. How was I to know? Besides,” added Chance, looking at her lips with hungry green eyes, “any man young enough to still be breathing would want to make love to you.”
    “It wasn’t like that with Jeremy,” she said in a flat voice.
    “I believe you,” said Chance, shifting his weight suddenly, pulling her down onto the blanket with him. “But I would have wanted you no matter how old I was.”
    Chance’s hands moved over Reba, fitting her to his body, telling her how much he wanted her now. She struggled to sit up again, wanting to tell him how it had been between her and Jeremy.
    “Don’t fight me,” Chance said against her hair. “I just want to hold you while you tell me about the man you loved.”
    Slowly the stiffness left Reba’s body. “I became Jeremy’s interpreter and secretary and chauffeur. I lived with him,” she said quietly, “just like his cook and maid and butler.” She braced her arms on Chance’s chest and looked at his face. There was no doubt or disbelief, simply interest and a hunger for her that made his eyes very green. “Jeremy had a good import-export business but little cash. He spent it all on his collection. His wife had left him long ago and his son was dead. Jeremy’s only ‘family’ was a brainless pile of meat called Todd Sinclair.”
    Reba paused for breath. Chance smiled, showing a white gleam of teeth below his thick moustache. Beneath the heavy silk of her hair, his fingers kneaded her scalp, sending chills of pleasure down her spine.
    “Go on,” he murmured.
    “There’s not much more to tell. Jeremy’s collection fascinated me. I began asking questions, thousands of them. He answered every one. After five years I’d learned enough to start my own business. Jeremy launched me as proudly as though I were his own daughter, introducing me to people who love the rare things of the earth. Sometimes I think he enjoyed my success more than I did.”
    Reba closed her eyes, feeling again the disbelief and the despair that had overtaken her when she realized how ill Jeremy was. “Six weeks ago, he had a stroke. I stayed in the hospital with him. I felt so useless . He had done so much for me, taught me, loved me, helped me to respect myself for what I was rather than for what other people wanted me to be. He gave me so much . . . and all I could do was hold his hand and watch him die. Sometimes,” Reba added, her voice so tight it was harsh, “sometimes I want to scream thinking about it.”
    “It will get better,” he said, stroking her hair.
    “Will it?” she asked, watching Chance with dark eyes. “Will I finally forget?”
    “You never forget watching someone you love die,” he said quietly. “You learn to live around it, though. You learn not to let death rule your life. But you never forget.”
    “Quite a pair, aren’t we?” Reba said in a husky voice. “You have nothing left of your childhood but bad memories and a lust for prospecting. And I”—she laughed bitterly—“I have bad memories and fifty percent of a worthless tourmaline mine. It can’t be coincidence that we met.”
    Tension ripped through Chance like lightning, making every muscle of his body hard. “What do you mean by that crack?” he demanded.
    “Nothing,” she said, staring at him, surprise clear in her voice. “God must have a sense of humor. That’s all.”
    She didn’t understand the cold intensity of his look or his fingers so painfully tight around her arms. Slowly his grip softened. She rubbed her arms. “What’s wrong?” she asked, wondering at the pain and anger and other emotions she sensed seething beneath his rigid calm.
    “Nothing.” Chance swore softly, violently. “I’m a fool to lie here with you, asking you questions and getting sad answers, making you feel bad when you feel so good in my arms. Let me hold you, chaton ,” he whispered. “When I kiss you I believe that anything is possible.”
    His need was irresistible to Reba. She